Slice of Life
by Thumperquack
Summary: Being able to read each other just sucks sometimes.
1. Chapter 1

Cal Lightman had too much paper work to do. It made him resentful and short-tempered. Usually Foster, his colleague and business partner, took care of that. He just liked being in the field, analyzing people, pissing them off. Foster was the one who took care of the worldly stuff—paper work, relating to victims and witnesses, smoothing over the edges with the rest of his staff.

Lately, though, something was off. He couldn't put his finger on it, but she'd been so irritable. He felt bad pushing her. It wasn't like he totally took advantage of her good will the rest of the time, but lately she looked she wanted to bite his head off every time he asked her for anything even remotely extra. So he was holding off. And analyzing her, though he knew he wasn't supposed to. That was a line they'd set a long time ago, when they'd first become colleagues. First and foremost, they had to respect each other's privacy. Otherwise they'd go crazy trying to figure out what the other was hiding, and shielding themselves from being caught.

In this peevish mood, he wasn't at all elated when the knock came at his door. Half-hoping it would be Foster (she had a habit of poking her way into his office just to talk sometimes, and he missed it), his heart sank a little when he saw it was Loker. The poor bastard used to be the fair-haired boy around here, until Cal caught him in a lie. More than a lie, a breach of security. Since then he'd been demoted to unpaid intern status, and considerably fallen in Cal's list of favorites.

"Yes, what do you want?" he demanded shortly, not even looking up from the report he was typing.

"Um, Dr. Lightman, can I come in?"

The request wasn't unusual, but the tone it was made in was. He sounded… insecure. Loker never sounded insecure. Even when he made a mistake. That had been his downfall.

"It's about Dr. Foster."

_That _caught Cal's attention. He looked up briefly. "Come in."

Loker went in and sat across the desk from him. Cal gave him a quick perusal. He seemed awkward, uncomfortable. Tense. Uncertain. Whether it was about what was going on with Foster or just being in the room with him, the boss who currently despised him, he could not tell.

"I think something's going on with her."

Cal could barely keep from snorting his derision. He knew his subtle look of contempt wouldn't be lost on Loker. Whatever his faults, he was good at his job. It was _obvious _something was going on with Foster. Just like it was obvious she hadn't confided in him either, by the sound of things.

"I think it may have something to do with this case we're working on. The Ackerman case."

Walter Ackerman. They'd been assigned to it for a month or so. Foster and Loker mostly, though Cal had sat through some of the preliminaries. Walter Ackerman was a high-end business man who had decided to blow the whistle on his corporation. The corporation claimed what he said wasn't true. The FBI's investigation yielded nothing. The US attorney couldn't prosecute unless they had evidence, and so far none was forthcoming. They'd actually begun to doubt Ackerman's sincerity. So they'd hired the Lightman Group to help them decide who was lying—Ackerman, or his corporation. To see if they should pursue the investigation.

"What about it?"

To his knowledge, there was nothing out of the ordinary about the Ackerman case. Straightfoward interviews, trying to decide who lied, who didn't. He hadn't been briefed on it lately, but his overall impression was that it was going okay. Then again, it _had _been about a month since Foster's mood change. The time frame fit.

Loker hesitated, as if searching for the right words. "I think she's having a hard time with Ackerman's lawyer."

A small trickle of apprehension ran down Cal's back. "Explain yourself."

Loker was obviously discomfited. "I think he may be harassing her."

The trickle widened into a stream. "Sexually?"

Loker looked at his feet. "Yeah."

"Based on?"

There was another pause as Loker tried to piece his thoughts together. "She's been increasingly cranky since we started, looks edgy when we have interviews with them, and lately she's looked disgusted. Twice I walked in on them, and he was standing too close, invading her space."

Cal felt slightly nauseous. It sounded like the kid might be on to something. "Have you asked her about it?"

"I did once. She shut me down hard."

It was just like Foster. If she didn't want to discuss it, she wouldn't. But it was weird that she _wouldn't _want to talk about something. She was usually so open about everything. Except family. The guy must really be under her skin for her to be so tight-lipped about it. Either that, or they had some history she didn't want them to find out about.

"We've taped the interviews," Loker went on. Only then did Cal notice he was holding some videotapes in his hands. Three of them, to be exact. "There's some telltale stuff on them."

"Leave them here," Cal ordered. "I'll look at them as soon as I'm finished. You can go."

He felt bad being so short with the kid, especially since he was trying to help. But discussing Foster behind her back, especially with coworkers, wasn't something he would do any longer than he absolutely had to. He knew Loker had Foster's best interest at heart, and appreciated that. It must not have been easy, questioning her about this—her being his superior and all. And it wouldn't be easy for Cal. He'd rather do it with a whole bunch of research to back it up.

He popped the tapes into his VCR. And by the time he'd finished viewing them, felt definitely sick. Something was evidently going on. It wasn't obvious to the naked eye, but to the trained eye of the Lightman group, it stuck out plain as day. During the first few interviews, Foster was her usual composed self. During the third one, something changed. Her voice was more clipped, harder. At times, Ackerman's lawyer, Stanton, seemed to be leering. Though Foster tried to hide it, the micro expressions for contempt and disgust were there. They came up more and more often as the interviews went on. And on the last interview, there was shame. Only for the briefest second, as Stanton was saying good bye to her, but it was there. And it froze Cal's heart.

Why shame? What did _she _have to be ashamed of?

It made him want to beat the crap out of Stanton. But he couldn't get ahead of himself. He had to check with her first.

It wasn't a conversation he was looking forward to.

She had already gone home for the day. And much as Cal hated bothering her at home, he knew she would be more likely to open up there than at the work place. At least it was someplace where she felt in control, and where others wouldn't be barging in unannounced.

He decided not to call ahead. She was too smart—she'd figure out he was on to something and find a way to escape. No, even if ill-timed, he'd be better off just showing up. Preferably with food. He could soften her up by appealing to her sweet tooth. It had always worked in the past when he'd had to make himself especially obnoxious.

She was surprised, though not totally unhappy to see him. It was obvious by her attire that he'd come in at an inconvenient time—she was wearing a fuzzy bathrobe and slippers, and her cheeks were flushed as if she'd just come out of the shower. Cal had to really control himself to keep from glancing down her robe. Was she naked underneath? _Get it together, Lightman. That's not what you came here for._

She invited him to her couch, poured him a drink. Took none for herself, he noticed. Just tea. She didn't seem tense. Not yet anyway.

"So… you mind telling me why you're here?"

There it was, straight to the point. Good ol' Gillian. He took a deep breath.

"You've been distant lately," he began. "Cranky. I'm not the only one who's noticed. Loker and Torres have mentioned it too."

Foster's arms went around herself. Defensiveness. "How do you know I'm not just on my period?"

Her obvious intent at deflecting fell flat. He knew it was something she'd never joke about on a regular basis. No woman he knew—including his own teenage daughter—would ever use their hormones as an excuse, resenting even the idea of their feelings being minimized that way.

"For an entire month, luv?" he asked, looking into her eyes.

She dropped hers. Shame. Bad sign.

He pushed on, hating himself a little but knowing he had to get to the bottom of the matter. "Loker seems to think it has something to do with Stanton, Ackerman's lawyer. That he's being inappropriate. Is that true?"

She still wouldn't meet his eyes, and the pause that followed was pregnant with emotion. Cal felt crappy. She obviously didn't want to talk about it, but couldn't lie to him or he'd know.

Subtly she pulled the edges of her robe tighter around herself—another protective gesture that wasn't lost on him. And determinedly met his gaze. "Yeah. Yes, it's true."

Cal felt a pang of anguish. Until she confirmed it, there were only suspicions—suspicions he was almost _convinced _were true, but hoped they weren't. Now that she'd confirmed it, there was no going back.

They stared at each other for a couple of seconds, a myriad of unwanted emotions crossing Foster's face—shame, anger, disgust. Cal knew much of the same must be crossing his also. They were open books to each other.

Finally, as gently as he could, he asked, "What's he done?"

She played with the hems of her robe. "Nothing at first. Just stared. But… lots of men do that."

Cal felt guilty. He had managed to stay away from her cleavage, but hadn't been able to help a few peeks at her well-toned legs.

"Knock it off, Cal," she broke in suddenly. "It's not creepy when you do it."

He composed himself. They were on a serious subject matter. "Loker said he invaded your space. Has he touched you?"

She shuddered. "Yeah."

Suddenly Cal felt like his head was going to explode. The man had put his hands on his colleague right there in their very own building? Without anyone noticing or stopping him? "Why the hell didn't you say anything?"

She seemed taken aback by his anger. "I… thought I could handle it myself. It's not the first man's unwanted attentions I've had to ward off, you know."

She was angry too. And ashamed. Cal could see it—loud and clear. She was ashamed—of not speaking out? Of letting it go on as long as she had? Of what he'd done to her? He couldn't be sure. All he knew was, the idea of that man being so brazen as to do anything against her will made him furious.

"What's he done?"

Unexpectedly her eyes welled up. "I don't want to talk about it."

Cal felt bile rising in his throat. It took all his courage to ask the next question. "Has he… done more than touch you?"

Shocked, she met his eye and actually pushed him away. "No! God, Cal." She swiped a hand at the angry tears that were spilling down her cheeks. "Don't you understand how utterly embarrassing this is? I'm a grown woman. I shouldn't be reduced to a whimpering little girl because of this. He's just a man. I should've been able to handle it better. I should have been able to stop it. At least, I shouldn't be so bothered by it."

He gave her time to pull herself together, sick in his heart but also slightly relieved by her words. For a minute there, he'd actually thought there was more to it—something he couldn't bear to face. Not if it happened to her. Not to _his _Foster. But he should have known better.

"He leered and made insinuations," she finally went on. "And kept on going even after I cut him short. It's like he couldn't take no for an answer. Once…" she gulped. "He touched my leg under the table during an interview. I wanted to kill him. And I think Loker noticed, because he asked me about it afterwards, but I told him to go to hell." More shame. "And once… he ran into me on the street. Tried to get me to join him for a drink. I wouldn't, and he got touchy feely with me."

"Touchy feely?" Cal was enraged.

"Got really close, tried to kiss me, touched my breast. I smacked him."

"Good for you." Tiny smile from Foster, though she was clearly not enjoying this. The robe was pulled so tight it went practically up to her chin. "When was this?"

"Last week."

Just before the last interview, where she'd shown shame. It made sense. And just before that day she'd snapped his head off for no reason.

Dumb son of a bitch. Cal was not a physical man, but he would have loved to kick his worthless ass. This was his _best friend _they were talking about. Where did Stanton get off thinking he could treat her like that?

"Alec know?" Alec Foster, Foster's husband. There was another sorry son of a bitch if Cal ever saw one, not deserving of her either. But… against all odds, she loved him.

"Of course not. It has nothing to do with him."

_But it has to do with me? _Cal felt slightly honored, then remembered what they were talking about and felt repulsed all over again. _Besides, you asked. She wouldn't have told you if you hadn't asked._

"So… what's your take on Ackerman in general?"

She seemed startled by his change of subject, but answered without losing a beat. "I think he's telling the truth. The corporation's lying."

That made it harder. If he'd been lying, they could dump all this on the FBI and forget it ever happened. As it was, there would probably be more interviews, more reports, more debriefings—and all this in the presence of Ackerman's attorney. The thought of it made him sick.

"We can report this, you know."

"To whom, Cal?" She was impatient now, angry, bitter. "It's not like I work with the man. It's not harassment in the workplace. It's not inappropriate behavior from a person in authority. It's not sexual assault. I got nothing."

"It _is _sexual assault," countered Cal. "If he touched you."

"Oh yeah, and how do I prove it? He just copped a feel on the street, for God's sake. It's not like he tore my clothes off or anything."

She was too graphic. Cal pictured the event in his mind and winced. Stanton would come to a slow, painful death if that ever happened.

"He's escalating," reasoned Cal. "He has to be stopped. If not by the authorities, then at least by us. Let me take over the Ackerman case. I'll join Loker. We'll handle it from here."

"No." Stubborn. "I can't be handing over stuff just because someone makes me uncomfortable. I have to be able to handle it. As much as I hate being in the room with the bastard… running away from him is worse. It means _he's _won."

And she was right. She usually was. Cal felt deflated, saddened, shamed himself for not noticing something was going on—shamed for proposing she back off without a fight. He was thinking of her safety and completely disregarding her ability to fend for herself. Though to be fair it hadn't worked too well this far. The protective macho in him wanted to step up on his white horse and slay the offender, save the fair maiden. But he knew it was not his place. He'd have to quietly observe from the sidelines and let the "fair maiden" take care of business.

"I'm sorry," he said, not knowing what else to say.

"It's okay." Short pause. "I actually feel better after telling you. This had been preying on my mind for so long. Thanks… for coming over."

She took his hand. And, despite all that was going on, Cal's heart warmed over because of it.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note:

I'm sorry I took so long updating, and REALLY sorry I didn't post an author's note before the first chapter. I keep forgetting how to work this thing properly, plus every time I come, the format's a bit different and throws me off a bit. That, endless business trips AND the inconvenient forgetting of my account password were responsible for the delay. I'll try to do better next time.

I'm grateful for everyone who read the first chapter, even more grateful to those who favorited/followed, and ETERNALLY grateful to those who reviewed. Hope you keep reading!

Disclaimer: I don't own Lie To Me. Obviously. :(

* * *

2.

"Son of a bitch!"

Gillian Foster wasn't usually fond of profanity, but this guy was too much, even for someone long trained in patience and empathy like herself. Loker gaped, wide-eyed, probably waiting for her to lose it. She wouldn't, of course. She was in control—she was always in control. It was one of the first things they taught you as a psychologist. Being in control didn't mean you couldn't rant and rave. Everyone did it once in a while. Some—like Cal—indulged in it way more than they were supposed to. Gillian herself usually didn't, but after what she'd been through, she felt more than entitled to some quality fuming time.

At least it was a relief to have the whole affair out in the open, unsavory though it might be.

It had been hell, this past month, fighting this _thing _brought on by Ackerman's sleazy attorney. Although she _knew _it was wrong, and her whole being rebelled against it, she hadn't had anything tangible to latch on to for the longest time. It's hard to defend yourself against an invisible foe. After a while she'd actually begun to wonder whether it couldn't all be some paranoid figment of her imagination.

In some ways, it had been almost liberating when he finally upped his game and made it physical. It proved it wasn't all in her head, gave her something concrete to pounce on. That slap to his face had been more satisfying than she could express. _You think I'm up for grabs? Take that, asshole._

But now it was back to the mind games.

In the cube, with his client, Stanton was a paragon of virtue and decorum. Standing roughly 6 feet, he wasn't even a bad-looking man—middle-aged, slate-haired and muscular, his practice could evidently afford some pricey suits and cologne, and his appearance was always impeccable. He never said a word amiss, and except for that time he'd "accidentally" brushed her leg under the table, had never been even remotely improper. How, then, did he manage to disturb her this much? She, a grown woman—married, educated, worldly—found herself reduced to a jumpy, queasy mess by his mere smirk and the lingering shake of one of his well-manicured hands. It was ridiculous.

"Are you okay?" cautiously queried Loker.

"Yeah," she muttered. "I just… can't wait for this to be over. What do you have on Ackerman?"

Poor Loker had nearly jumped out of his skin that morning, when she'd ordered him into her office and with no further preamble, burst out, "I know you told Cal about Stanton."

Loker was nobody's fool. She knew he'd been privy to her situation for a while. The kid was a good judge of character, and _she _wasn't as skilled at hiding her feelings. Somehow that had made it worse—knowing she was being humiliated and in front of her subordinate no less. Now that there was no point to further secrecy, it was almost a relief to not have to explain.

"I know you told Cal, and it´s okay," she added, before she could lose her nerve. "I'm glad you did. I'm glad you know. I should have outed the situation ages ago. Guess I was just in denial. It was childish of me."

To give credit where credit was due, though obviously flustered, Loker managed to keep a professional demeanor. "So… what happens now?"

She shrugged. "Nothing happens. We keep on doing our job. Ackerman's our priority—not Stanton. Stanton is nobody. Once we're done here we won't have to see or hear from him again."

And that was precisely what she'd tried to do all interview. But the man just kept pushing all her buttons. The suave way he sneered, the revolting way his groomed fingers moved along the table. It made her skin crawl.

"Well…" Loker began, tearing his eyes away from her and back to the screen. "Good news is, this is our fifth positive interview. His vitals were all stable—blood pressure, skin temp, pulse. No unexplained vocal spikes. No visible ´tells´. He _looks _like he's telling the truth. At least, I can pretty confidently say he's not telling any lies. Not about anything pertaining to the investigation."

"It's a good enough case to hand over to the FBI," Gillian said contentedly. "Let's type up our reports. I can't wait to put this behind me."

Cal came up to them just as she was showing them out, a brief spark of anger in his eyes when they settled on Stanton. She knew he'd come to check up on her, and didn't know whether to feel grateful or insulted.

"All good?" he asked, once the door was safely shut behind them.

"Yeah. We're done here. Now we just gotta present our findings to the FBI."

"Great."

His gaze was still raking over her curiously, making her slightly uneasy. "What?"

"Nothing, luv. Just glad to see this end."

"You and me, both."

Her cell phone chirped to life and, eyes falling on the caller ID, she subtly steeled herself before answering.

Alec.

Her husband hadn't been himself since the whole Sophie catastrophe, but lately he'd really been slipping. It had been a month now since he'd confessed to falling back into his cocaine habit, though she'd been suspecting as much for at least three. It was like suddenly the devoted, orderly family man she knew and loved had vanished—replaced by a jittery individual who lied and binged and snuck out after dark like some love-ridden teenager. She couldn't really blame Cal for thinking he was having an affair—the notion had crossed her mind as well. Now she knew better—or thought she did. She wasn't sure she approved of the person he'd chosen as his sponsor—but theirs was a relationship that predated their marriage, so she _had _to accept it. Anything to make him stop. As much as she loved him, she was no saint. If he continued using, the situation would eventually become untenable.

"Yeah, honey, what's up?" Syrupy-sweet chipper. She felt like a two-faced phony for putting up such a front.

A phone call this early could only mean one of two things: either he was blowing her off for lunch, or he was blowing her off for dinner. A pit settled in her stomach at the thought of either. And the pathetic excuse of a lie that was sure to follow.

Predictably enough, his first words were, "I'm sorry, I can't make it to lunch. Lawrence scheduled a meeting and…" _Yadda, yadda, _Gillian rolled her eyes, tuning out the rest of his rehearsed speech. But the next part surprised her. "Listen, Gill—I know I haven't been the best husband lately. It's been hard. But I'm doing better. And I wanna make it up to you. Let's go out to dinner tonight. I made reservations for Tosca. Pick you up at 7?"

Surprise made her blurt out, "sure."

Afterwards she realized she'd caved too easily. Was it wrong that one small attention from her husband still had the ability to make her melt? She guessed it was—after all it was what she'd so ardently criticized about Cal and his relationship with his ex-wife. _But that's completely different. They're divorced. We're not._

She allowed herself to bask in the glow of her husband's love for the rest of the day, eliciting more than a few curious glances from her coworkers. After her previous bitchiness, she couldn't blame them. They probably thought s_he _was the one on drugs.

Getting the desired attention from the _right _man, rather than unwanted attention from the _wrong _man, would do that to you.

It was near the end of the day when Torres traipsed in with a flower arrangement —a beautiful fragrant pile of lilies and jasmine. She felt a twinge of jealousy—it had been years since any man had sent her flowers. _The perks of young love._

"You holding out on me, Ria?"

Ria evenly surveyed her, in the unnerving way naturals had. As if they could see into your very soul. "They're for you, actually."

"Oh?"

Though delighted, Gillian couldn't help a stirring of uneasiness. A phone call, dinner _and _flowers? It was overcompensating to a fault. Alec only did that when he'd been especially dissolute. What could he have _done _to promote this much devotion?

The small card attached only read, "thinking of you". No name, no signature, no endearment. Nothing.

_Weird._

Ria was still staring at her, though pretending not to. Sometimes Gillian longed to knock her upside the head and tell her to cut it out. But what was the point? It was instinctive to her. She could no sooner quit reading people than she could stop breathing.

Alec arrived just then, all seductive smiles and expensive aftershave. He was on his best behavior and looking… well… scrumptious. There _was _a reason she'd married the man after all. Oddly enough his smile faded a little when he saw the flowers.

"Thanks for the bouquet, honey. I loved it."

The words rang false to her ears, and the blank stare he gave her confirmed her suspicions. She glanced back at the sprig with trepidation, and when her eyes met Ria's, she knew the protegè had reached the same conclusion.

If Alec hadn't sent the flowers, then who?

Stanton?


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: **Sorry this is so short, you guys. I meant to spin it out much longer but the end sort of snuck up on me. There was no getting rid of it. So this is it for now, but I'm already working on the next one. Please continue Reading & Reviewing. Let's keep this fandom alive!

3.

Gillian Foster was creeped out.

Her whole stance screamed it—even if only for a second. The widening of her eyes, the slight tightening of her lips, the way she stood arrested on her way to the door. Then she collected herself and the moment was gone.

Yep, Gillian Foster was definitely freaked—and for some reason this unreasonably disturbed Ria. It wasn't like she'd never seen the older woman afraid before. They dealt with so many demented psychos and risky situations, being scared out of your wits was almost an everyday occurrence.

It was the object of her fear that unsettled her. A bunch of flowers, of all things. What could it be about them that scared her so bad?

Ria knew she was nosy by nature. Like a dog with a bone, she couldn't let go of a mystery once she'd got her hands on it. It had caused her _so _many problems in the past—with family, friends, coworkers—especially Lightman, who had low tolerance for anyone's intrusiveness but his own. She didn't care. For better or for worse, she _had_ to get to the bottom of the matter. It was worth any collateral inconvenience.

Making sure Foster and her lying husband were well down the hall and no one else in sight, she slowly inched back to the bouquet. Nothing strange or menacing about it—perfectly standard gift-wrapped sprig. Foster had seemed genuinely surprised—and not overly pleased—at being the recipient. That meant she either didn't _know _the sender or he was somehow undesirable. And it wasn't her husband. That glassy-eyed stare of his had as much as said so.

Who then? A lover? A stalker? _Lightman?_

She nearly laughed out loud at that one. Lightman worshipped the ground Foster walked on, but didn't have a romantic bone in his body. He'd probably shoot himself before sending anyone flowers. Or giving a compliment. Even sending a Christmas card would probably be beyond his scope of possibilities.

Lover?

No way. Ria wasn't really friends with Foster, but everything she knew about her pointed to her being a straight arrow and a genuinely nice person. _Too _nice, sometimes. The kind of nice other people took advantage of. There was no way she was cheating on her husband—not after all the crap she put up from him.

Stalker? Secret admirer?

Sadly, it seemed the most likely possibility. And fit with the fact there was no name on the card. Come to think of it, Loker had been kind of cryptic about Foster lately. A couple of times in the break room he had seemed on the verge of disclosing something. Maybe he knew something she didn't?

She decided to seek him out but was promptly quenched by a dour-looking Lightman. "What are you still doing here? Out!"

_Always the charmer, _she mused irritably, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. "I'm looking for Loker. I need—"

"He's gone home—everyone's gone home. And so am I. So either get out, or I'm locking you in."

"Fine."

Still seething, Ria clattered out the door and down the parking lot toward her car. The man could be so infuriating! She honestly didn't know how Foster and Loker—hell, even his own family—put up with him. It was like he enjoyed pushing her buttons— sadistic little bastard. Everyone made excuses for him, from the receptionist up. But Ria knew the truth. He took pleasure in watching his subordinates squirm. Brit humor or not, you had to make a true effort to be as hurtful as he sometimes was. Not for the first time, she wondered if leaving airport security had been a good move. It had been mind-numbing work—true. But at least she'd been respected there. Around here she always felt like the company drone—overused and underappreciated, alternately bullied and overlooked.

Something caught her foot and she angrily shook it off, cursing when it wouldn't loosen. "What the f-?"

The hand came out of nowhere, catching her on temple and sending her flying to the blacktop. Before her terrified wits could recover, she found herself pinned to the ground by a knee to the back and a hand on her hair, while a breathy voice whispered in her ear, almost sensually, "When are you bitches gonna learn to mind your own business?"

"What?"

"You heard me." A cold metallic object trailed down her face, Ria's heart going into overdrive when she recognized it as the muzzle of a gun. Her life virtually flashed before her eyes.

_Not today… oh God, not today._

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The gun disappeared, the pressure on her back lessened, and she opened her eyes to find her assailant gone.

Shakily she rose to all fours, appraising herself for signs of damage. Aside from her bruised forehead and skinned hands, it didn't seem to be too bad. Her heart was still pounding in her ears and her knees shook so badly, she doubted she'd be able to get up. Much to her chagrin, a shuddering sob made its way out her throat.

A shadow materialized at her side and the sob turned into a scream, heart racing, arms flailing out in defense.

"Jesus, Torres!" Lightman's voice pierced through the darkness, clearly surprised himself at finding her there. Surprise turned to shock as added, "What the hell happened to _you_?"


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: Thanks for putting up with the delay. Hope you like this next installment!

4.

If there was anything Eli Loker did _not_ enjoy, it was being called back in to work a mere hour after he'd left. It was disrespectful. He'd just plopped down in front of the TV with a mouth-watering pizza and a cold beer. To say his heart sank at the sound of Lightman's English lilt over the line would be an understatement. But when he heard _what _the voice sounded like, his attitude changed.

"Meet us back at the Lightman Group, Loker. _Now._"

It was the "now" that got him. Filled with urgency and concern—it was something he'd only heard from Lightman once before, when the copycat rapist had gone after Foster.

His palms tingled uncomfortably. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

His first thought was that something must have happened between Stanton and Foster. But his logic immediately crossed it off as ridiculous. Stanton might be a sleazeball, but he was way too smart to go after her publicly. He had no reason for being back at the Lightman group after today. They'd all but finished with his client. No matter what his intentions with Foster might be, he had too productive a career to do anything that would jeopardize it or his reputation.

All sorts of scenarios crossed his mind, none of them good. By the time he pulled into the parking lot, his hands had turned clammy and the dazzling police lights only managed to alarm him further. Break in? Impossible. Lightman had the most anal security money could buy. There was no way anyone was getting in… except with a hostage. And there weren't enough cops around for a hostage negotiation.

Accident?

Killing the engine, he jogged up to the squad cars and ambulance, taking in the people gathered in front. Lightman was one of them, posture tense, face uncharacteristically devoid of sarcasm. The other, a lanky policeman taking notes. Off to one side, a frazzled, overdressed Foster was firing questions at someone in the ambulance.

The only one not accounted for was Torres.

Eli's heart gave an uncomfortable flip. Torres was his friend. He'd been with her barely an hour ago. She _couldn't _be hurt. She just couldn't be.

"What happened?" he demanded.

Lightman honored him with a caustic glare. Apparently the man wasn't willing to let up on his grudge even in times of crisis.

"Torres was attacked. We're still trying to piece it together."

"Where is she?" Lightman's eyebrow shot up, letting Eli know the question had come out more frantic than he intended. "Is she okay?"

"She'll be fine. She's in the ambulance getting checked out."

So that was who Foster was talking to.

Approaching the bus, he took a deep breath and a good long gaze at his superior, trying to prepare himself for what he would find. Thankfully, Foster's formerly frayed demeanor had visibly relaxed, which augured well.

Ria's countenance, sitting on the gurney under harsh overhead lights, could only be described as sour. She had some bruising on her face, bandages on her hands, and was dirty as hell, but seemed otherwise unharmed.

"What happened?" he asked again.

Eli understood Torres. She was the epitome of the gutsy chick—the one who'd had to bring herself up and _make _herself somebody, in spite of her family and everyone around her. She was stubborn, steadfast and resentful—likely to turn any negative emotion, fear, grief or disappointment, into anger. So, predictably—she looked furious.

"Son of a bitch tripped me up and held me down," she hissed.

"Who?"

"I didn't see," she admitted in frustration. "It was too dark and he caught me unawares."

"What did he want?"

Eli wasn't an idiot. This was no mugging—Torres's purse was right there. The next most likely reason for a man to jump a woman in the middle of the night would be to sexually assault her. From the defiant pout on Torres's face and the relatively appeased expression on Foster's, he guessed they'd already been over that. No sense aggravating her further.

"How the hell should I know? I already told the cops. All he did was hold me down and put a gun to my face and tell me to mind my own business."

She really was pissed. Good thing her hands were otherwise engaged, or she'd probably have used them to clobber anyone in the vicinity. _Don't hassle her, _Foster's eyes warned him. _Let her deal._

He backed off, feeling placated but useless. What was the point of Lightman calling him back to work if there wasn't anything he could do to help? He wasn't a witness, he wasn't law enforcement—hell, he wasn't even equipped to comfort his friend. That pizza and beer were beginning to look real good right about now.

"So what's your take on this, Loker?"

Eli turned and gaped his boss in disbelief. Lightman was asking _him _for an opinion? Seriously? _Lightman_?

"Well—c´mon. Cat got your tongue? Spit it out, Loker."

There it was—the legendary Lightman finesse. Its familiarity succeeded in unleashing his tongue. "Sounds like a threat to me."

Lightman rolled his eyes back to the officer. "See? It's not a mugging. I told you."

"We need to look at all the angles, Dr. Lightman," patiently replied the officer. Not for the first time_, _Eli would have been willing to bet.

"I keep telling this bloke it's personal, that it has something to do with one of our cases," Lightman explained. "But he won't believe me."

It _was _kind of a long shot though. While Eli had to agree, the "mind your own business" bit had a definite intimidating ring to it—the case Lightman and Torres were currently on hardly warranted that kind of response. As far as he could tell, it was an open and shut deal regarding a family will. There had been some sort of clause to it, and Lightman and Torres were supposed to ascertain if its terms had been met. Where money was a factor, tempers were likely to be short, true, but… physical violence?

"We've had a rash of violent purse-snatchings in the area," the uniform began. "MO fits—"

"But her purse wasn't taken," Eli broke in. "I just saw it."

The uniform shrugged. "Maybe he just didn't get to. They were interrupted when Dr. Lightman walked in on them."

"But I _didn't _walk in on them," Lightman insisted, running his hands through his hair in exasperation. "I got there _much _later. Bloke was long gone." Giving him a shove toward the building, he went on, "Go on, Loker. Show him the surveillance video. We've got cameras at every door."

So _that _was what Lightman wanted him for.

Curtly, Eli led Officer Knightley into the building, eerie and unfamiliar in the after-hours dark. Their footsteps echoed down the hall making Eli uncomfortably jumpy. To make matters worse, the videos, when they found them, were disappointing. They had cameras at every door, true—but none of them had a wide enough scope to view the entire parking lot. All they got was an excellent HD shot of both Torres and Lightman exiting the building. Nothing more.

"You really think this was a purse-snatching?" Eli asked at long last. "Were the others this… aggressive? Did the perp threaten those victims too?"

For a policeman, Knightley had a remarkable poker face. "No. They _were_ knocked down. Age and other characteristics match. All young women—all going home from work. All attacked in parking lots."

"How come this is the first time we're hearing about this?"

"It hasn't been going on that long. And no weapons had actually been used, so it was considered strong-arm robbery. Now it's _armed _robbery. They'll have to assemble a task force."

The uniform seemed certain Torres's attack fit the criteria. Loker didn't see how. There were too many disparities. And threatening the victim wasn't part of any purse-snatcher's profile. It was personal.

They were about to leave when Foster joined them. "Torres is okay. I drove her home. Her boyfriend was there—he'll keep her company."

Her body language exuded something. Anguish? Fear? Even Officer Knightley noticed, pausing all activity as if encouraging her to go on.

"I got some flowers today. Torres brought them in." She swallowed. "Said they were for me. I took her word for it but there was no name on them. The card just said 'thinking of you'. I thought they were from my husband. They weren't. Now I'm thinking… maybe they were for her all along? Part of an intimidation tactic?"

"Show me," Officer Knightley instructed.

Foster stood her ground, still looking uncharacteristically uneasy. "I can't. They're gone."

Eli did a double take. "What do you mean, gone?"

"I mean someone got them out of here. And it was either Cal… or someone who was in my office after Cal left. Someone with access to the alarm system. Or…"

_Or someone who's still in here with us._

The hairs on the back of Eli's neck rose with an unnerving prickle.


End file.
